Two Little Boys
by GoldStarGrl
Summary: Before they were enemies, before they were egotistical and manipulative and wrecking havoc on London, they were just the Holmes boys. But people rarely leave this world the way they came in. Each chapter will look into Mycroft and Sherlock's childhood, and what made them the men they are now.
1. Orginally, he wanted to be a pirate

"My?"

"My?"

"My?"

Mycroft sighed, rolling over in his bed to face the wall, trying to block out his younger brother's calls. Being in year 7 was very stressful, and he needed as much sleep as possible.

However, sleep was next to /impossible/ when your brother was-

"My, I want to thow you something. Look ath me, look ath me!"

Mycroft groaned and sat up in bed.

"Sherlock, you do know it's six O'clock in the bloody morning." He said, rubbing sleep out of his eyes. His four-year-old brother was standing on his tip-toes, head resting on his hands, which were propped up on the edge Mycroft's bedframe. His bright silver eyes were darting around, observing, taking everything in, as usual. Well, one of them was.

"What...watcha got on your eye?" Mycroft said, still groggy. Sherlock scoffed, adjusting the black piece of felt lacquered across his face by duck tape.

"It'th an eye pacth. I'm a pirate, _obviously_" He replied matter of factly, his lisp mangling his words to an almost ridiculous extent. Mycroft nodded blearily, too out of it to tease his brother.

"That's wonderful Sherlock. Now go away, I need to sleep."

Sherlock climbed over the bedframe and onto the end of Mycroft's bed.

"You slepth for nine hourths lasth nighth. You don'th need anymore."

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

"...How do you know that?"

Sherlock shrugged, absentmindedly examining his tiny plastic sword he had tucked into his pajama pants.

"I dunno. I watchthed you go to bed. thath wasth Nine hourth ago." Without warning he swung the sword out in front of him, nearly stabbing Mycroft in the throat. He quickly snatched it away.

"Jesus, Sherlock, you're going to hurt someone with that."

Sherlock's eyes lit up.

"Yeah! Liketh Captain Hook!" He made a grab for the sword. Mycroft held it above his head, out of his reach. Sherlock pouted, jumping up and down on his brother's bed.

"Give it bacth!"

Mycroft smirked, waving it still higher as Sherlock danced and jumped for it.

"C'mon My, give it bacth!"

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"No."

"Pleath? Pleath?" Sherlock fell to his tiny knees, his dark hair flopping in his eyes. Mycroft shook his head, pulling the sword to his chest and lying back down.

"Piss off."

There was a pause. Then Sherlock climbed across the bed and sat on his brother's chest. Mycroft's eyes flew open as he gasped for air.

"Get...off me... you...psycho..." He squeaked. Sherlock kept reaching for his sword.

"Play with me or I'll thell Mummy how you keepth sthealing her money to buy that magithine with the girlths on it!"

Mycroft froze. Slowly, he lifted his brother off his torso and placed him in the floor next to his bed. He gave a nervous look, not unlike the face of someone who has witnessed a terrible trainwreck.

"Seriously, how the hell do you know about those?"

Sherlock was still trying to grab his sword.

"I can hear the money jingling in your pockeths, and I thee the magthines under your mattress. Thee?" He looked back at his brother, gesturing vaguely at the edge of a Playboy peeking out from under the bed. "When you have magithines, you don'th have money. Tho that meanth you're usthing the money buying them." He rattled off. He cocked his head to the side, looking mildly curious. "Why do you even wanth them?"

Mycroft turned bright red. Sherlock snatched the forgotten sword from Mycroft's sheets and started swinging it wildly again.

"Play with me My!" He whined again.

Mycroftweighed his options. He knew his mother would kill him if she found out about the ten...or eleven or fifteen magazines under his bed. Then again, did he really want to get up? It was 6:15 for God's sake. The old people were still in bed. He glanced at Sherlock, who was still looking up at him, his eye covered in duct tape and his green pajama bottoms too big, flopping on the floor past his feet. He looked so pathetic and innocent, Mycroft almost felt bad for him.

Then again, he was probably the only preschooler in history to blackmail someone.

Mycroft let out a sigh of defeat and got out of bed.

"OK, ten minutes, OK? We can be pirates for ten minutes."

Sherlock broke into a wide smile, running and hugging his brother around the leg.

"You're the besth brother ever." He said happily. Mycroft felt an unexpected surge of happiness at his words. He shook it off. He was in middle school, after all. Everything was lame. And ridiculous. Lame and ridiculous and not at all sweet.

"OK, you take the sword and we can chase down the alligators..."


	2. It wasn't me who upset her, Mycroft

"Here we are!" Mrs. Holmes pulled up in front of the university, the back of their car dragging a bit thanks to all the boxes that had been packed in the boot. Mycroft, who usually tried to stay cool and unimpressed, couldn't fight the smile that tugged at his mouth as he looked over the grand, sweeping campus. He was finally here. Three short months after high school and he was going to become a lawyer and then a politician and then change the world. He couldn't wait.  
His mother opened the doors and the two of them started pulling boxes of Mycroft's things out onto the sidewalk. His mum blew her dark, curly hair out of her face and glanced back at the car.  
"Sherlock, aren't you going to help?"  
The ten year old was perched on top of a box in the backseat of the car, where he'd insisted on sitting for the ride there. He looked up from his book, mildly startled.  
"We're hereth? When did we geth hereth?" His lisp, which everyone had thought was so adorable when he was a child, was now just annoying. Mycroft thought everything about him was annoying, including his absolute disregard for anything that wasn't his own train of thought. His mum, however, didn't seem to mind. Although she loved and cared for both her sons, she absolutely adored Sherlock. She smirked as she went over and lifted him off the box.  
"About ten minutes ago, you space cadet. Now put down..." She looked at the title and sighed. "...Put down _The Art of War _and help us move Mycroft's boxes up to him room." Sherlock sighed heavily and looked at a box in front of him. Instead of picking it up, he peeled the packing tape off in one swift motion, leafing through the contents of his brother's boxes.  
"Why are you bringing thisth?" He asked again and again, taking random objects out of Mycroft's boxes and examining them. Mycroft gritted his teeth, trying not to scream. Just once he wished Sherlock didn't have to be such a nuisance. Finally, sensing her older son's growing irritation, Mrs. Holmes snatched Mycroft's 2nd Place Original Oratory trophy out of her younger son's hands and crouch so she was at eye level with him.  
"Darling, I need you to focus. Just take these boxes where Mycroft tells you too, OK?"  
Sherlock made a face and wrapped his fingers around the top flap of the boxes, lugging it towards the front of the building. Mrs. Holmes looked after him with a faint glow of amusement and adoration for her littlest boy in her face. Mycroft picked another up and followed, grumbling to himself. If he'd been slacking off like that, his mother would have yelled at him. _But God forbid anyone upset her precious little delicate little perfect little genius. If he had to live in my shoes for an hour-_  
Mycroft's inner rant was interrupted by a sharp tap on his shoulder. He turned to see a stocky, short boy with dark eyes grinning excitedly up at him. "Are you Mycroft Holmes?" He said. He was wearing a bright red blazer, a shiny gold tie and pleated pants. His bags surrounded him, all clashing as horribly as his clothes, but he seemed friendly enough.  
"I am." Mycroft sub-consciously straightened his tie, trying to look professional. It was always important to make a good impression. You never knew who had connections.  
The other boy held up a few sheets of paper.  
"My-my name is Joey St. Lawrence. I recognized you from your picture...we're going to be roommates!"  
"Oh." Mycroft said, mildly surprised. He held out his hand. "Pleasure to meet you." Suddenly something clicked in his head.  
"Wait, St. Lawrence as in-"  
"The law firm of Stamp, St. Lawrence and Larkin, yup." Joey beamed, waving his hand. "That's my dad."  
Mycroft tried not to let his mouth fall open, disbelieving of his good fortune.  
"I've been following their cases in the news since I was a child. That's the most powerful firm in England!"  
Joey smiled and nodded. He took a step closer to Mycroft and beckoned him in.  
"I can get you a tour sometime, if you want."  
Mycroft let himself beam for the first time that day.  
"That would be amazin-"  
"He's gay, you know."  
Joey's bright smile slid off his face. So did Mycroft's. He whipped around to see Sherlock standing behind him, his face buried in _The Art of War_ again, his glance only occasionally flicking up towards the exchange in front of him. Mycroft tried to take a deep breath, but only succeeded in a shaky gasp.  
"Sherlock, go find Mum." He said in low voice. His mind was racing. _Oh God, don't do that trick. Not here, not now._  
Joey flushed red and stuttered "Wh-what did he say?"  
"Nothing." Mycroft said sharply. He crouched down and grabbed Sherlock by his tee-shirt.  
"Go help Mum." He growled. Sherlock jerked away, looking at his brother with silver, blank eyes.  
"But he'th gay Mycroft. He walkth with a sway, his clotheth are pressthed and preppy, and histh pupils dilated when he wasth talking to you, a thign of thexual attraction."  
Joey had backed away as tears danced in his eyes.  
"I...I...who do you think you are?" He squeaked.  
Mycroft turned back to him.  
"I'm so sorry-"  
"Get away from me, you weirdos!" Joey screamed. Several heads turned as he stormed off. Including Mrs. Holmes. She ran over, familiar tears of frustration pricking her eyes.  
"What. Happened." She whispered in a barely concealed rage. Mycroft wasn't too calm himself. He pointed a shaking finger at Sherlock, who was staring at Joey's retreating figure nonchalantly.  
"He just did that...thing...where he...he outed my roommate!" Mycroft's voice cracked as his mother's eyes widened. They lost some of their anger, and held more fear. She bent down and cupped her hands around her younger son's thin shoulders.  
"You did WHAT?" She asked, her face pained. Sherlock blinked. His usually firm posture seemed to shrink a little under her gaze.  
"Not good?" He asked. Mycroft rolled his eyes. His mother had read that having a phrase that was associated with negative activity helped kids like Sherlock cope in society. Mrs. Holmes shook her head.  
"No, not good at all dearie." She said. Sherlock looked at her a moment more, than shrugged and walked away, going back to his book.  
"Oh. Well, it's true."  
'_Not good_' had yet to do a damn thing.  
Mycroft felt his anger bubbling. No matter how hard he tried to be normal, to actually get something he wanted in his life, his weirdo brother ruined everything, every time-  
"And I hate it! I hate _you_!"  
Mycroft didn't realize he'd been talking out loud until he heard his mother gasp.  
He didn't realize he'd pushed his brother until he heard the loud _crack_ on the pavement.  
Sherlock lay sprawled on the concrete, his left hand shunted under his back. He slowly slid it out, nursing it with his free arm. It was crooked and bloody. His eyes filled with tears as Mrs. Holmes started bawling. Mycroft when pale.  
"Mum, I-"  
She grabbed him by the wrist so tightly he felt his arm go numb. Her voice was ten times more furious than it had been last time.  
"You are EIGHTEEN. He is TEN. Why the HELL..." She became overcome with tears, dropping his hand and looking down at the pavement.  
"Why can't you two just do as your told?" She yelled. Mycroft tried to pat her on the shoulder.  
"Mum-"  
"I'm sorry Mycroft, we have to go." She said, scooping Sherlock up and rushing him back to the car.  
Mycroft watched from the sidewalk as she strapped Sherlock in and started driving off to the hospital. She only glanced at him once, teary and angry and cold. Sherlock looked out the window, tears streaming down his face. The windows were up, but Mycroft could still hear his faint yell.  
"I HATE you."  
His mother didn't react. Mycroft felt a little like he'd been punched in the gut. Apparently his mum had decided who's side she was on. The side of her strange son, the son who couldn't survive in the real world for five seconds. His eyes narrowed as he angrily yanked his boxes off the ground and stalked off too his dorm. It took him hours to get everything up by himself. He'd barely gotten in when he received a notice that Joey had requested transfer to a new room. He didn't care.  
Mycroft fell onto his new bed, cradling his head in his hands.  
He didn't care. Caring didn't get him anywhere anyway, it wasn't an advantage.  
So Mycroft stopped caring.


	3. So just leave me ALONE

**Note: I was just told Mycroft and Sherlock's are seven years apart, not eight and a half like I've been doing. Whoops. I'm going to stick with these ages though. It's the age difference between me and my littlest brother, so it's easier for me to do the math.**

* * *

"So what's he up to?" Mycroft asked, taking his coat off and handing it to Mrs. Lawrence, the housekeeper. She clucked her tongue and cast a nervous glance up the stairs.

"You know your brother. He's just being...different." Mycroft smirked as she continued. "Go up and say hello, though, I'm sure he'll be glad to see you."

_I doubt it._ Mycroft grumbled to himself, but trudged up the stairs anyway. He was visiting to tell his parents about the new job he'd gotten in the Ministry of Defense. Only twenty-four, and everything was going according to plan. That is, except for having to interact with his brother. He straightened his blazer and cleared his throat. No matter. He could be mature about this. Mum and Dad would be home soon, he'd only have to talk to Sherlock for a few minutes.  
He knocked on his brother's door. There was no answer. He knocked again, more forcefully. This time he heard a sigh of annoyance. Knowing this was as close to an invitation in as he'd get, Mycroft swung the door open.  
Sherlock was lying on his bed, his hands clasped in prayer, pressed against his lips. His school uniform was disheveled. Mycroft clucked disapprovingly at his shirt untucked and his tie tossed on the floor.  
"What do you wanth Mycroft?" The lisp had gotten so much better, it was all but gone. His mother had put Sherlock through at least four speech therapies, but it had never been completely fixed. Sometimes Mycroft wondered if he still talked like that just for attention.  
"Well hello to you too, darling brother." He made to sit down on Sherlock's desk chair, but suddenly Sherlock sat up in bed and shrieked.  
"Don't toucth that!" He lunged forward and yanked the chair away so suddenly that Mycroft jumped. He stared at his little brother frantically examining every angle of the chair, mumbling to himself.  
"What the hell was that?" He said incredulously. Sherlock barely glanced up.  
"I rigged my chair to explode at a weight of more than ten kilogramth." He said. Mycroft backed away in alarm.  
"Why on Earth would you do that?"  
Sherlock smacked the leg of the chair, then observed it for a moment.  
"I wasth bored."  
Satisfied, he leapt back to his bed and resumed his praying mantis position. Mycroft stood awkwardly in the center of the room, careful not to touch anything. After a couple seconds of silence he cleared his throat.  
"So...how's school?"  
"Dreadful." Sherlock muttered, his eyes closed. Mycroft frowned.  
"Why dreadful?"  
"The usual things. Teachers geth mad when I correct them, the imbeciles on the football team carved the word **FREAK **into my locker-"  
"They did WHAT?"  
"-and it's justh so boring. God, My, it's where intellectual thoughts go to /die/." Heaving a dramatic sigh, he turned over to face the wall, still think-praying. Mycroft eyed him nervously.  
"Well...haven't you got any friends?"  
"I don't have friendth and I never will. I don't want any. "  
"A girlfriend then."  
"No!"  
"A boyfriend?"  
"Did Mummy send you in to spy on me?"  
"You're sixteen, Sher. It's a perfectly reasonable question."  
Sherlock sat up in bed, his eyes angry.  
"I told you not to call me that!"  
Mycroft threw his hands up in exasperation.  
"If you're going to be a nit, I'm leaving." He walked out the door and slammed it.  
There was a loud bang, and then smoke started to pour out from under the door. Mycroft swore as he held his tie over his mouth.  
"Dammit Sherlock!"  
"It's you're faulth! You triggered it!" He yelled furiously back through the door, hacking. Mycroft swung it open again, fanning the smoke in every direction. He stood almost nose to nose with his lanky little brother.  
"It's my fault? It wouldn't even be rigged if you hadn't... you're such a FREAK!" He yelled.  
Sherlock's eyes faltered for just a moment. The sharp, cunning silver light went out, leaving the tiniest traces of hurt. Mycroft felt his stomach drop.  
Then Sherlock's face hardened again.  
"Piss off, brother dearest." He said coldly, and slammed the door shut.  
He leaned his back against the door and slid down to the floor. He gripped chunks of his curly hair in his fists, letting the smoke blanket him as he let out a sigh of frustration. This world, which he found so dull and ordinary, found him...strange. Weird. Even to his family, Sherlock Holmes was a freak.  
Not that he cared.  
He stood up suddenly, striding across his room and picking up an old broom that leaned against his bed. With one swift motion, he whacked his desk chair.  
The boom was so loud it shook the stairs as Mycroft walked down them, making him stumble. Mrs. Lawrence looked as the chandelier above shimmied and shook her head.  
Sherlock stared at the clouds and clouds of black smoke and melted fragments of plastic that flew at him. A small fire had started where the chair had been standing.  
Sherlock felt a grin twitch on his lips as the fire alarms started blaring. He was weird, fine. He was going to be proud of it. He would shove his _weirdness_ so aggressively in all those boring, idiotic people's faces that...  
Maybe he'd forget how much it hurt.  
So Sherlock started to push people.


	4. I worry about him, constantly

He hadn't wanted to come.

His mum had phone him at five in the morning, right when he was getting up for work and she knew he couldn't avoid her, and begged him to.

"I'm worried about Sherlock. What he's up to." She had said tearfully. Mycroft sighed through his nose and slid down on his pillows.

"You and the rest of England." He grumbled sleepily. He could almost feel his mother glaring at him through the phone.

"I'm serious My. I haven't heard from him since his first week of uni, and you know how bad he is at..."

"Acting normal?"

"I was going to say making friends." She paused. "Could you please just stop by? Just tell me if he's doing alright."

Mycroft had put on his glasses, lightly slapping his own cheek to wake up.

"Why me?"

He heard her hesitate on the other end of the phone.

"You're his big brother. There's still a bit of him that looks up to you. He'd talk to you before any of us stuffy adults."

"I _am_ an adult. And so is he, he turned nineteen two weeks ago!"

"MYCROFT." His mother's voice was suddenly rife with warning. Even though he was two hundred miles away, he still felt himself cower a little, thinking of her glare. He closed his eyes and paused for a long moment.

"Fine." He sighed.

"Thank you. And take care of yourself too." She said as he hung up. "Go easy on the cake!"

So here Mycroft was, riding the tube across London at seven in the morning, umbrella and briefcase tucked under his arm, hoping he could make this quick. He didn't want to miss any more work than he had to.

He remembered Sherlock's building from when they helped him move in five months earlier. He walked up to the front desk and flashed his I.D. to the bored looking freshman working there.

"I'm here to see Sherlock Holmes." He sighed. He didn't know why, but he almost felt a little offended by the look of shock that flashed across the kid's face.

"You're here to see...Sherlock? You serious man?" The boy had a thick Irish accent that made Mycroft's head hurt. He narrowed his eyes and put his I.D back in his pockets.

"Of course I'm serious, why on Earth wouldn't I be?"

The boy looked slightly amused. He raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

"Sherlock's just...you know..." He looked around and then leaned in. "Everybody hates him." Mycroft felt his stomach drop. "He won't talk or eat or sleep, just randomly comes 'round the dining hall and announces who's been getting off with who." The kid leaned back on his chair. "And most of the time he's right. Fuckin' weird man."

Mycroft felt a surge of anger. He quickly snatched his umbrella up and glared at the boy staring at him.

"He's not..." He faded off, then drew himself up to full height. "What my brother does is his business. Children like you should mind your own."

The kid held up his hands in a mock-frightened fashion. Mycroft turned on his heel and marched past the desk and into the dorms. He then realized he couldn't remember where Sherlock lived, and he certainly wasn't asking the brat at the front desk.

_If the girls are on the odd number floors than that eliminates half, freshmen usually get the lower levels so between the 200s and the 280s...it's alphabetical, so the H's are roughly in the middle... _Mycroft worked his deduction so fast he found himself standing in front of room 227 in less than thirty seconds. He knocked on the door lightly.

"Um, hello, I'm looking for Sherlo-"

The door swung open. A dazed looking boy with red hair and a gray shirt that proclaimed I AM NED stumbled out. His room was dark and dank smelling, with hazy wisps of smoke floating and twisting around him.

"You lookin' to buy?" He slurred. His blue eyes were unfocused. Mycroft pulled his hanker chief from his breast pocket and covered his mouth and nose.

"No, thank you. I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes?"

The boy, presumedly Ned, nodded slowly, but didn't say anything, his mind too drug-addled. Mycroft felt a growing annoyance building within him.

"Where is he?" He said sharply. Ned pointed down the hall, and then burst into giggles.

"221. Man, Sherlock..." He faded off. Mycroft turned to go, not feeling like hearing more critiques about-

"Dude's one of my best costumers."

Mycroft stopped dead in his tracks at that. He didn't look back at the Ned, didn't even ask him, but something clicked in his mind. Some things you just know.

"Oh God no." He started walking briskly down the hall to 221. (No matter how panicked he was, he never ran.) He smacked the door handle and forced his way in.

Sherlock was sitting on a mattress in the middle of the room. His blankets were all twisted around him, a few books in his lap, a microscope leaned up against the mattress, along with a jar of what appeared to be intestines. Sherlock himself had his head lolling about, his eyes closed and his muscles twitching ever so slightly.

And a long, yellowish syringe was hanging from his arm.

Mycroft's eyes widened.

"Sherlock?" He asked, his voice three octaves higher than normal.

Sherlock squinted up at him for a moment, uncomprehending. Then he swayed and fell onto his back, like a ragdoll. He didn't move. Mycroft felt his breath hitch in his throat. He took a couple more steps into the room.

"Sherlock, wake up." He tried to command, but his voice was too shaky. Sherlock didn't move. His chest wasn't even going up and down.

_His chest wasn't going up and down._

What happened next is something only understood by older siblings. Big sisters and brothers all over the world who have seen their siblings hit rock bottom. One might call it a trance. Others an animal instinct, every fiber of your being screaming at you to protect and save this littler person, a duty you've been called to since the day they were put in your arms. Whatever the reason, something deep inside Mycroft sent him leaping across the bed and tearing the needle out of Sherlock's arm, suddenly manic. He shook him by the shoulders, although he vaguely knew one wasn't supposed to do that to the unconscious.

"Sherlock Holmes, you wake up this instant."

Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft pressed his hand against his brother's wrist, feeling for a pulse. It was faint and slow, but still going. Mycroft frantically tried to remember the medical training he'd had in prep school. All he could remember was that the sick needed plenty of water. He resumed shaking Sherlock, wondering if he should splash water on his face from the tap.

Luckily, it was at that moment when Sherlock's eyes started fluttering open.

He saw a hazy blur of colors, the fuzzy shape of his brother's profile swimming and morphing before him.

"Mycro-" He began, but was cut off by Mycroft slapping him across the face. Sherlock gasped, his eyes cracking open a bit more. They were bloodshot and his voice was raspy.

"Wha..."

Mycroft whacked him again, upside the head.

"ARE YOU CRAZY?" He yelled. Sherlock stared at him. Just like the boy in the hall, he was too stoned to understand what was going on. Mycroft looked at him helplessly for a second, then yanked him to his chest, hugging him so tightly his arms went numb.

"Oof! Mycroft, geroff me!" Sherlock flailed around, high and freaked out. Mycroft just lay him down on his mattress, his heartbeat slowing back to normal. Sherlock looked at him blearily for a few more seconds, then passed out. This time though, he was breathing, so Mycroft let him lay. He reluctantly fished his phone out of his pocket and dialed the office.

He'd be calling in sick today.

When Sherlock came to a few hours later, he squinted in the bright light, the faint effects of the drugs still in his blood making his head pound. With a groan, he slowly shifted himself upright in bed and opened his eyes wider as the adjusted to the lights.

His bottle of intestines, his books, and his microscope were all stacked neatly on his shelf. The filthy floor had been swept and the sheets around him folded neatly. And that damn overhead light was on. He thought he'd shot that thing to bits the first week...

He was suddenly aware he wasn't alone.

He turned to face the presence, then winced at the pain that shot through his head.

"What to you want Mycroft?" He mumbled as he clutched his head. "What did you do to my room?" His brother sat up taller, trying to appear dignified. Although, it was a hard thing to do when sitting on the floor and leafing through _A Teen's Guide to London!_ He didn't look up from the magazine though, as he spoke.

"Your room was filthy, you were going to get sick."

"Mummy think something's wrong." Sherlock mumbled, standing and rubbing his temples. Mycroft lay down the magazine and sighed in exasperation.

"Can you blame her? I show up here and you're about to overdose-"

"I wasn't overdosing." Sherlock seethed. "That what it does. It knocks you out when the buzz is still high so you sleep through the crash."

He crossed his arms and scanned his now neat room. "I'm fine."

"You're not fine!" Mycroft said, louder than he meant to. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, When he opened them, Sherlock had turned, observing him.

"You've been talking to the others." He stated. Mycroft stood.

"There's that Ned character over there who's apparently your drug dealer!"

Sherlock cocked his head, looking mildly surprised.

"That's his name?"

Mycroft ignored him.

"Then there's some Irish brat downstairs who tells me everyone-"

He caught himself and looked down. Sherlock rolled his eyes, a sarcastic look of intrigue painted on his face.

"Oh, everyone _what_?" He yelled in mock exasperation. "What about everyone did you find _so_ fascinating?" Mycroft continued to study the floor.

"Everyone...hates you." he mumbled.

The smirk left Sherlock's lips, and his face fell for the briefest of seconds. Then he raised an eyebrow at Mycroft, all confidence and swagger once more.

"What do I care what a bunch of dull, simplistic-"

Mycroft rapped his umbrella on the floor, making Sherlock fall silent.

"You are supposed to be making friends with these people."

Sherlock openly scoffed, flopping back down on his bed again.

"They wish." He muttered. Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed through his nose.

"Fine. Sit here by yourself, the way you always do." He picked up his few belongings and started backing towards the door. He hesitated, looking back at his brother.

"Just...please stop with the drugs. For me."

Sherlock arched his eyebrow.

"Are you asking me for a favor?"

Mycroft threw his hands in the air and walked out, closing the door behind him. He walked down the hall, past Ned's room to the end of the corridor. He leaned against the wall and punched in a familiar number.

"Hello? Yes Mummy." He swallowed, rubbing his free hand against the hook of his umbrella. "Yeah. Um, Yes, I saw him."

He cast an uneasy look at the sealed door of 221.

"He's...doing fine."

He felt the guilt swirling in his stomach as his mother practically cried in relief on the other end of the phone. He knew he hadn't stopped Sherlock from doing anything, and his mother...

She couldn't know what her precious baby Sherlock had become. He had to protect her from this. This was his load to bear, now.

So Mycroft started worrying about his brother.


	5. What might we deduce about his heart?

Mycroft Holmes was a very powerful man.

He had only been out of university for six years and he already had two departments and three hundred people working for him. He had an ornate, spacious flat and a brand new Lexus which he loved parading around London. He was doing just that one April evening after work, enjoying the lights and sounds of the city as he glided by. He pulled up to a stoplight noticed how terrible the gridlock was. He looked up and heard faint yelling a few yards ahead.

He craned his neck to see out the window, wondering what the commotion was. As soon as he saw, his heart jumped into his throat.

Four different lines of cars and buses and taxis beeped and waved their arms and swore at whatever was in the road, blocking their way. That thing, sitting at the dead center of the intersection, bare foot and playing a violin, was Sherlock.

Mycroft groaned and, as he did so often, weighed his options.

He could just keep driving. Turn around, go another route and pretend he never saw this. That the twenty-two year old circus act was just another stranger in this eight million person city. It would be as simple as that.

Mycroft pulled over and got out of his car.

"Oi! Out of my way!" He found it difficult to maintain his usual composure while jumping in front of cars and running into the intersection past a couple of policemen who had started to approach.

"What in God's name are you doing?" He yelled as he strode over to his brother. Sherlock looked up and grimaced when he saw who it was.

"Oh, what are you doing here?" He whined. Mycroft tried to pull him upright by the arm. Sherlock sat tight.

"What am I doing here? What am _I_ doing here? I was having a drive like a bloody normal person, when I see this idiotic display in the middle of the blooming street!"

"It's not idiotic I needed somewhere to think." Sherlock said quickly, his last words carrying a bit of a growl. Mycroft rubbed his temples in exasperation and tried to pull Sherlock up off the ground again.

Again he held fast.

"Excuse me sir, do you know this man?"

Both Holmes whipped around to see a young police officer approaching them. Mycroft sighed and walked over to the cop, trying to pretend half of London wasn't staring at him.

"Yes, um, sorry-" He glanced at his badge. " Officer Lestrade. That's my younger brother. He's..." Mycroft cast a nervous look over to Sherlock, who had started fiddling with the strings on his violin. "He's crazy." Mycroft muttered. The police officer clucked his tongue disapprovingly.

"You gotta get him out of here in the next fifteen seconds or we're going to take him to the station." Officer Lestrade glanced around at the hundreds of angry people. "People don't take kindly to crazy these days."

Mycroft gulped and nodded. He turned on his heel and stormed over to his brother.

"Sherlock, if you don't come with me in the next two seconds I will carry you out, like a child."

Sherlock didn't move. Mycroft sighed and, with a grunt, grabbed Sherlock around the waist and lifted him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry, briskly walking away from the intersection.

"What...put me down Mycroft! Right now!" Sherlock yelled, one hand clutching his violin and the other hitting his brother's back. Mycroft ignored him, dragging him back to his Lexus, which was still parked on the side of the road. He wrenched open the door and threw Sherlock unceremoniously in the back seat. He slammed it shut and went back to the wheel, making a U turn and speeding away from all the curious eyes.

Mycroft glanced back as Sherlock sat up in the backseat and buckled himself in. He opened his mouth to lecture, but was stopped by a loud screeching sound.

"Bloody hell, will stop with the violin?" He yelled as Sherlock commenced some sort of aria. His brother reluctantly dropped his bow and crossed his arms.

"What do you want?" He said testily.

"I don't want anything! I am just trying to keep my little brother from getting arrested." He paused. _"Again."_

Sherlock groaned and kicked his feet up so they were resting on the back of Mycroft's seat.

"When are you going to let that go?"

Mycroft seethed in his seat, remembering the night just a year before, when Sherlock had gotten pulled over for driving while on cocaine. Normally a fine or suspension of license, but not a court case.

Normally though, drugged drivers didn't tell the police all about the affair his wife was having with another woman.

They'd thrown Sherlock in jail for two weeks.

"And you would be there still if my team didn't bail you out." Mycroft said, unable to keep the smugness out of his voice. Unable to resist humiliating Sherlock with the knowledge he was just a stupid kid who needed his big brother to take care of him.

Sherlock glared at him for a few moments, then flopped back in his seat. They rode in silence for a few miles. Mycroft took an exit back towards Sherlock's dorm.

"Don't take me back." Sherlock's voice rang suddenly from the back seat. Mycroft clucked his tongue.

"You're not really in the position to be making requests."

Sherlock looked pained, opened his mouth to say something, then closed it. Mycroft made eye contact with him, and slowed suspiciously.

"You don't want to go back...why?" He deduced. Suddenly a horrible thought entered his mind.

"You can't."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. Then he looked down at his feet, pale and bare.

"Not exactly." He mumbled. Mycroft pulled over for the second time that day. He turned around in his seat to look at Sherlock.

"What do you mean, 'not exactly'?" He struggled to keep his voice civilized and level. Sherlock shrugged and looked out a window.

"It's not like the university kicked me out. My floor did." His eyes remained fixed on the glass. "They threw all my things out the window and changed the locks on my door."

Most people would have been stuck on the horror of how cruel kids could be. But if Mycroft knew his brother, he knew there was a motive behind their madness.

"What did you do?" He said quietly.

Sherlock shifted in his seat.

"There was..." He faded off, then squared his shoulders and look Mycroft right in the eye. His expression was dertimnedly blank, like of he showed emotion, he lost. He began speaking faster than Mycroft had ever heard him talk, as though the words inside were killing him.

"There-was-a-boy-named-Jim-who-transferred-here-two-months-ago-and-ended-up-assigned-to-my-room-and-he-told-me-how-brilliant-and-clever-I-was-and-I-may-or-may-not-have-developed-a-mild-attraction-to-him-and-may-have-written-about-this-affection-in-my-journal-which-he-found-and-thought-amusing-to-share-with-the-entire-floor-who-in-addition-to-hating-me-are-all-apparently-very-homophobic-and-thought-it-funny-to-banish-me-from-the-dorm-and-leave-me-wandering-the-streets-with-my-belongings-ARE-YOU-HAPPY-NOW?"

At his last word, Sherlock jerked around in his seat and pulled his knees to his chest, tucking his head away.

Mycroft just stared at him.

Fortunately, working for the government often means thinking on your feet. Mycroft quickly catalouged all the information-_M__y brother is gay, my brother is capable of feelings, my brother is homeless_.-And focused on the most pressing matter of them all.

_My brother is heartbroken._

He opened his mouth to say something, then sighed and rubbed his face.

"Sherlock..." He started, then looked up at the ceiling of his car, his fingers uncharacteristically twitchy, jumping on the steering wheel.

Mycroft Holmes was a very intelligent man, but even he had his spots of ignorance.

He had dated a little as a teenager, had a girlfriend for two months in college. He slept with his secretary last year, but he'd never been good with relationships. Most women were put off by his inability to handle emotions, the messy parts of love, so no one ever stayed long.

"Sherlock..." He tried again. "Um, I'm..." He straightened up. "I'll have a talk with the main offices at the school, see if we can't get you a room in another building."

Sherlock let out an audible groan at that.

"Everything is about logistics with you, isn't it?" He said, still refusing to look at Mycroft. "Anything can be fixed if you call or bribe or know the right people."

"I don't know what you want me to do." Mycroft had started out loudly, but stuttered and faded into a whisper.

"I don't know what you want me to say."

Sherlock didn't speak for a moment. Then he lifted his head, and kept his empty silver eyes fixed out the road ahead.

"I'm different Mycroft." He said. He tried to keep his voice collected and suave as he could, but Mycroft could hear a hint of bitterness underneath it all. "I don't... _feel_ things the way I'm supposed to. " He took a deep breath and spoke far too quickly again. "I'm-feeling-rather-unpleasant-about-this-whole-ordeal-and-am-at-a-loss-for-how-to-handle-it."

Mycroft sat in the silence for a long while, listening to Sherlock's heavy breathing. The Holmes boys were discussing solutions to dating rejections.

Hell had apparently frozen over.

"Sherlock, you and I lack a certain...proficiency in this area." He couldn't help smirking a little. Then he shrugged.

"All I can offer is...Caring is not an advantage." He said finally. "Always remember that."

Sherlock's shoulders slumped. His bit his lip so hard he drew blood. Mycroft realized with horror his brother was trying not to cry. He wanted to yell at him to stop, but something told him that wasn't the best way to handle it. He watched Sherlock shake for a minute, helpless against emotions, and turned to his words. Words had always helped before. He blurted out the first thing that entered his mind.

"Friends, boys, girls; You and I, we are destined for so much more than that."

He watched as Sherlock gave him a curt nod. He sat quietly as his brother gradually wiped his eyes and shifted in his seat.

Holmes didn't break down. They didn't sob or hug or eat ice cream and watch movies when they were crushed.

They just collected themselves and got on with life. They were better than that.

So Sherlock stopped himself from feeling.


	6. It's a Danger Night

_The__ rehab center was no place for someone like Sherlock. _

The thought was loud and obvious in Mycroft's mind as he sat in an uncomfortable plastic waiting room chair, scanning the room around him. The walls were white and bare, as were the floors, ceilings and all the furniture. The nurses and doctors all were clean and blank and colorless. It would be impossible to deduce more than two or three facts about them. Nothing carried any history or story or clue.

_Sherlock must be going out of his mind_.

"Mr. Holmes? Your brother is ready." Mycroft thanked the nurse and followed her down a long hallway, stopping at a door near the very end. She left him be and he knocked three times. The door cracked open just a sliver. A blonde boy around nineteen or twenty peeked out. Mycroft held up a hand in greeting. "Is Sherlock in?" The boy blinked at Mycroft for a moment. Than, as if it was causing him great strain, turned and said flatly over his shoulder.

"Sherlock. Door." There was some shuffling and the door swung open even more widely. Mycroft turned to face the blonde boy.

"Thank you, um..." "Elton. His name's Elton." Sherlock stood up behind him. His dark curls had grown even more unruly since Mycroft had left him there three months before. He was scrawny for twenty-five, his hip bones sticking out from the pajama pants he wore, he cheekbones more prominent than one could believe. His eyes were narrow and glaring, but they were worlds clearer and more alert than before, so Mycroft didn't mind.

"I came to arrange your discharge." He told his brother, leaning on his umbrella. Sherlock rolled his eyes and stalked over to his bed, sloping down and letting out a sigh of irritation. Elton also looked bored. He nodded to Mycroft and walked out of the room.

"Leaving. Lunch." He called. Sherlock didn't even respond. Mycroft watched Elton leave and then turned back to his brother. "You look much better." He said finally. Sherlock didn't move, but stared at the plastered ceiling tiles as he spoke.

"And you've just had a promotion. Your watch is brand new, and you don't buy yourself anything unless you think you deserve it. You have lines under your eyes which means you've been worrying a lot or not getting enough sleep, probably both. Another sign of working for the government." Mycroft smirked a little as Sherlock finished his deduction and crossed on of his ankles over the other. His face was blank. They stayed in awkward silence for another thirty seconds. Then Mycroft rubbed his temples and sat on Elton's recently vacated bed.

"Look, I know you're angry with me-"

"I wouldn't sit there if I were you." Sherlock said, his eyes still fixed on the ceiling. "Elton has boundary issues. He's only been here three weeks and withdrawal has made him suspectable to frequent lash outs." Mycroft stood. Sherlock locked his jaw once more. Mycroft walked over and sat on the edge of Sherlock's mattress. He had a brief flashback of a toddler Sherlock, sitting on the end of his bed and whining at Mycroft to wake up. He quickly banished the thought from his mind and focused on the task at hand.

"So, you'll be getting out Friday morning at eight-thirty. I thought that would be enough time to pack your things." Sherlock scoffed.

"I don't have things." He met his brother's eye, glaring. "They confiscated anything that was on my person the night you dragged me here." Mycroft closed his eyes.

"I did not "drag you" here, your rehabilitation was court-ordered." Sherlock sat up in bed.

"No, it was court-ordered that I stop using recreational drugs. It was you that dragged me to this hellhouse with doctors and therapists and sharing rooms like I'm a bloody fourteen year old and writing about my _feelings _in this thing-" He pulled a thin brown notebook out from under his pillow and whipped it at the wall. "I don't _have_ feelings, Mycroft! You made it so I don't feel!" he yelled, his eyes blazing. Mycroft glowered at him.

"Well, it sure looks like your feeling something now." He licked his lips and then pursed them together. "So apparently I didn't _ruin you_ quite as much as you think." Eyes blazing, Sherlock opened his mouth to defend himself, not sure what was going to come out, when a small beeping made them both look down.

It was coming from a metal bracelet around Sherlock's skinny wrist. He fell against his pillow, holding his arm up to his face.

"Shit." He said quietly. Mycroft heard footsteps coming down the hall. "What?" He said uneasily. Sherlock clasped his hands in a prayer position, pressing them to his lips. "It's my bracelet, it's standard pulse-reading technology. If it gets too high, they come." Mycroft closed his eyes once more and nodded in understanding. "To make sure no one's having a panic attack."

"-Or killing themselves." Sherlock said softly. It was at that moment three nurses came bursting in, running to Sherlock with a cold cloth and needles, murmuring about he was going to be OK, it was going to be fine. It wasn't fine. Even with the drugs expunged from his veins, his life about to start anew, there was something stuck in him that wasn't right. So Sherlock wasn't fine.

And watching his brother get prodded and poked and cooed to, watching the light in his eyes grow more and more angry with the world around him, with his brother who put him there, Mycroft wasn't fine either.


	7. Grow up!

A month after he was released from rehab, Mycroft took Sherlock out to dinner.  
It wasn't his idea, but the doctors had insisted that patients be kept under mild surveillance for their first couple months out of the hospital, when they were most likely to relapse.

Most things involving Sherlock's care-appointments, food, paying bills- Mycroft could just send an intern to take care of. After all, he had almost two thousand people working under him these days. However, when it came to actually interacting with Sherlock, no one else would touch the situation with a ten-foot-pole.

So he picked his brother up from the hostel he was staying at, and rolled his eyes when he got in the car.  
"I told you to wear something nice." He grumbled. Sherlock cast a distainful look at Mycroft's clean, dark suit.  
"This is nice." He gestured to his own outfit. He was wearing Converse sneakers, a bright blue blazer and pants combo and a corduroy overcoat. "I have no interest in what you consider fashion, you know that."  
Mycroft rolled his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like _"You look like Doctor Who."_

Sherlock scoffed, but he buttoned up his coat and took sneaking peeks at his brothers all black attire anyway.  
The two rode in silence to the restaurant, a posh little Italian place Mycroft's assistant had raved about. They were seated and as soon as the hostess left, Sherlock mumbled "That man is a criminal."  
Mycroft sighed. "Please, not this again."  
Sherlock leaned across the table.  
"But it's so obvious. He's always looking over his shoulder, like he's used to being watched. I'd say he was a solider, but no military man's hands are that shaky. He almost dropped that women's risotto."  
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at the end of Sherlock's speech. Ever since he'd been hanging out with ex-junkies and ex-dealers, his younger brother's deductions had been more and more about how everyone was a guilty bastard.  
"Do you want applause?" He said sarcastically. Sherlock didn't pick up on it, observing the room as he drummed his fingers on the table.  
"I'm thinking about opening my own business." He said suddenly. Mycroft started choking on the complimentary bread sticks they'd been given.  
_"What?"_ He gasped two glasses of water and much undignified hacking later. Sherlock responded as if he hadn't even noticed the little episode. He probably hadn't.  
"I'm going to be a detective." He said, his eyes still scanning the room, picking out idiosyncrasies and patterns all around them. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  
"You want to be a private detective? Sherlock, the only people who hire private detectives are those in troubled marriages trying to catch their partner cheating." He couldn't imagine his brother being satisfied with that kind of work. Sherlock shifted in his seat, thinking for a moment.  
"Well, then I'll hire myself out to the police. I can help with the interesting cases."  
Mycroft smirked and set down his water.  
"You want to he some sort of...consulting detective? That's not a real job."  
"Not until someone makes it one." Sherlock said testily. Mycroft sighed.  
"You can't just go around making up jobs, especially if you want to start your own business."  
"You think I'll crash and burn." Sherlock said, a hint of amusement in his voice. Mycroft scoffed.  
"I know you will."  
The words, cruel and loud, escaped his mouth before he could stop himself. Mycroft openly cringed as Sherlock's smirk vanished. He raised an eyebrow, the minuscule movement the only sign of the terrible offense he felt. Mycroft palmed his forehead and groped for his glass of wine.  
"Sher, I didn't mean-"  
"Don't. Call me. That." The rage was barely concealed in Sherlock's voice as he stood and pushed in his chair. "I have to go. Good night."  
Mycroft stood up and walked briskly after his brother.  
"Sherlock!" He called into the street as darkness enveloped them. He could just make out the outline of his brother whirling around to face him on the sidewalk. His eyes were firey.  
"I am not six years old anymore, Mycroft." He spat. "I don't need you running my life! If I want to do crack or solves crimes or blow up the bloody Tower of London, I will!"  
Mycroft bit his lip, glancing up as rain started to drizzle down on them.  
"Sherlock, you deserve..." He faded off as the rain got heavier.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and grinned sarcastically as his wet hair plastered his face.  
"I deserve a fancy job as a government puppet like you? Mycroft, when was the last time you actually did something for yourself, not because it'd get you a favor?"  
Mycroft opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. Finally he held out his right hand and popped his umbrella open with the left.  
"Sherlock, It's pouring. Let me walk you to my car."  
Sherlock looked hard at his brother's hand for a moment.  
Then he turned on his heel and ran in the opposite direction.  
Mycroft reluctantly curled his hand into a fist and shoved it in his pocket. A flash of lightning made his eyes black out for a moment.  
Just a second, but when his vision cleared, Sherlock was gone.  
So Sherlock decided he and his brother were better on opposite sides.


	8. Tell him I'm sorry

The earth was crunchy and cold under Mycroft's feet. He padded along through the cemetery slowly, half-heartedly kicking the dry leaves out of his path. Every few seconds he'd look around for John on Mrs. Hudson. After all that had happened, the last thing he wanted was a nasty run-in. He'd heard John could pack quite a punch when he was upset.

He walked past the familiar headstone of his mother, dropping his head slightly as he passed. He supposed it was better she'd passed six years before. He couldn't imagine what how devastated she would have been if she had been around to see what had happened to her baby boy.

And who had caused it.

Mycroft stopped in front of a shiny black headstone. It was new, too new, the soil still dark and turned up. He stared down at it unblinking for a moment, reading the name and the numbers over and over and over again. He couldn't even begin to think of what he could say to his...

"You turned thirty-one the Tuesday before you...well..." Mycroft blurted out awkwardly. He pointed to the dates on the stone, just in case anyone listening needed explanation. "I-I know you never could really remember your birthday...I just thought you might want to know."

It was true. Just a few months before, Sherlock had emailed him saying he needed to renew his passport, had he been born in late June? Try January 9th, he'd replied snidely.

_How could that possibly matter, anymore?_

"...Never mind." He looked up at the sky, trying to force the odd stinging in his eyes back down his throat. He took a deep, shuddering breath and continued. His eyes were squeezed shut.

"When you were a toddler you used to badger me into playing pirates with you every morning." He said. He spoke very fast, his voice high and strained. "You were so little and you didn't really know how to do the deduction madness yet." He smirked bitterly. "When I would play with you...you used to look at me like I was the most important person in the world." Mycroft's voice cracked as his eyes opened, bloodshot.

"You told me I was the best brother ever."

He paused for a moment, pulling out his handkerchief and dabbing his eyes.

"I wasn't." His voice was loud and harsh now, as if trying to drown out the sound of his misery. "We fought all the time and I made scenes and you embarrassed me." His voice rose as he spoke sharply, anger boiling inside him.

"You embarrassed me to no end."

He made a wild movement-To walk away or lunge at the grave, he didn't know. What he did know what that his foot got caught on a rock, and he fell to the ground.

He caught himself on his hands and quickly pulled himself onto his knees, his eyes still firey.

"You were selfish and conceited and you never stopped fidgeting-" The newly turned earth was soaking into the knees of his pants, but Mycroft didn't stand. "-You never ate and you alienated everyone and broke the law everytime I turned my back!"

The last word rang out over the cemetery. Mycroft seemed to remember who he was and took a breath, standing again.

"And you were my little brother." He finished, his voice suddenly getting small.

"And I-I know I said it wasn't an advantage, and believe me, I tried, but I NEVER stopped caring about you." He stated at the grave for a few minutes more, tears welling in his eyes but not falling over the edge.

Finally, he got enough of his bearings to step back, blinking hard.

"You were so clever. And I know how much John loves you and wishes this was all a trick...But I know you. And I don't know how you possibly could've gotten out of this."

He swallowed hard. He felt like a little part of him, the bit of faith he'd had in Sherlock since he was four years old, had finally died. Another piece buried in the earth forever.

"I'm sorry." He whispered. He turned on his heel and left, heading back to his car.

Heading back to his life of riches and power and absolute, crushing loneliness.

Mycroft used to worry about his brother constantly.

Now he sat down in the front seat of his car, forced his face back into an expression of composure, and shakily drove away.

His eyes were still blurry with tears.

If he hadn't been crying, he might had seen a tall, thin man watching him from behind a large tombstone.

Sherlock worries about his brother constantly, nowadays.


End file.
